Roomies by Christina Lauren

nineteen

Honestly, despite the looming awkward of the drunken sex in our rearview mirror, it’s all fun and games for two hours of social media surfing until we come across ads for penis enlargers in the #ItPossessedHim tag. With a surprised grunt, Calvin slams my laptop shut, and we turn to stare at each other in shock.

“I don’t know where to start,” he says. “Do we talk about the social media thing, the sex we sort of had last night, or whether or not I should invest in the penis enlarger?”

I can’t maintain eye contact when he goes there because I think my brain starts bleeding, so I look over to the bookcases when I say, “I don’t think . . .”

“. . . that we should talk any more about the social media thing?”

I laugh. “That’s the only safe topic.”

In my peripheral vision, he nods. “So you’re saying I need a penis enlarger.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” My face hurts from all the embarrassed wincing I’ve done since we woke up.

“I’m trying to make light of this. That’s what I do.”

“I’m getting that.”

He nods slowly, licking his lips. “Good. Hungry?”

I’m starving. The problem is we’re both hungover and terrified of exiting the apartment. It’s not that he’s recognizable yet; it’s that, from my living room window, we can see three photographers lazily wandering back and forth in front of my building.

Calvin’s Twitter account went from a paltry twenty-two followers yesterday to over sixty thousand this morning, and every time we look it’s higher. He’s tweeted three times in two years, and the third one—which he tweeted this morning and is a photo I took of him and Ramón after their first rehearsal together when they’re shaking hands and laughing incredulously (because, really, the two of them together are magic)—has been retweeted over seven thousand times.

So, there’s that. Also, apparently Lin-Manuel Miranda was there last night, as was Amy Schumer. I’m not sure I can rally my meager cerebral resources to comprehend this while at the same time calculating the true contrast of his talent to my meh.

I think I’m in some sort of shock. I can’t interact like a reasonable adult even when Calvin is asking me direct questions. We had sex. We are married. He’s a trending topic on Twitter. I honestly—truly—do not know how to proceed here.

On the one hand, I could just ask him: “Be honest: how much do you regret the sex last night?” The worst thing he could say is a little, which of course I would understand, and then we wouldn’t even bother to pick up the pieces—we have a matter of months of required marriage left—and instead, we’d figure out how to move past them down the road.

On the other hand, it might be better for both of us if we just keep on joking and move past it without any serious conversation. His making light of it makes me think—

“Hollllllllland.”

I startle as Calvin leans into my field of vision. “Are you alive?”

Based on the playfully exasperated look on his face, I’ve missed something. “Sorry. What?”

He shakes his hair out of his eyes, and I get the full impact of both of them, smiling over at me. “I asked you whether you wanted eggs. And when you didn’t answer, I decided you would want eggs, but then asked whether you wanted the bollocks American bacon in the fridge, or something greasier, like delivery burgers.”

“When did you say all this?”

“When you were mouthing your thoughts at the bookcases.”

I frown. “I was mouthing my thoughts?”

He nods.

“What was I . . . mouthing?”

A grin flirts with the corner of his mouth. “I dunno. You tell me. I bet it was something about sex.”

I don’t even know what to say right now, so I just throw out: “Let’s get burgers.”

He seems to like this answer, snapping his fingers decisively and walking to the counter to get his phone.

I want to say something, not only to pull my brain out of the frantic recollection of every savory detail from last night, but because I’m not sure how to feel about how easily he seems to rebound from having emotionally murky drunk sex. “You have a performance tonight,” I blurt. As if he could forget. It’s a rare week without a matinee, but they had planned for Luis’s departure, and the schedule is a little light as a result.

Looking around into the kitchen to the clock on the stove, he says, “Robert said I need to be there at five.”

He’s still wearing only boxers. I hear him on the phone, ordering our lunch—burgers and “chips, no—sorry—fries”—and I’m happily staring at him unobstructed—Oh my God, we had sex—when my own phone buzzes on the coffee table.

It’s Jeff.

My heart slams against my sternum. Jeff doesn’t often call; he’s a texter. If he’s calling . . . if something has gone wrong over at the immigration offices . . .

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetie,” Jeff says. He sounds happy. This is good.

“Hey, Jeffie, what’s up?”

“Good news,” he says, and then laughs. “I think.”

Time slows. It’s like I know what he’s going to say, but I need him to say it anyway. “Yeah?”

“Your interview is scheduled.”

I look up at Calvin, who’s finished ordering and is headed back to the couch. The pleasure I take from him being in only underwear and the stress of what Jeff has just said are brewing a strange concoction in my belly.

“Our interview is scheduled,” I whisper to him.

His eyebrows shoot up, and I swear his boxers slide another inch down his happy trail.

“But here’s the bad news,” Jeff says, and my stomach drops. “Sam had an opening, and he worked some magic for you to be penciled in.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, “when is it?”

Calvin watches my face to gauge my reaction.

Jeff clears his throat. “Monday at ten.”

We have two hours before we need to leave for the theater, and we’ll have tomorrow to talk, but it’s not enough. We expected we’d have at least a couple more weeks to prepare for the interview.

The internet is a godsend when it comes to sample questions, and Jeff assured me before he hung up that Sam Dougherty is really nice, and this meeting isn’t something we should be worried about. But . . . how is that possible? We only have to lie convincingly to a nice person about our sham of a marriage? I don’t want to be busted for this! I’m not a hardened woman; I would decay quickly in prison.

It’s been so long since I crammed for an exam, and this one seems more important than anything in high school, college, or grad school. At least we had sex! There’s one less thing to lie about. Too bad we barely remember it.

Swallowing an enormous bite of burger, Calvin looks as relaxed as ever. “You are Holland Lina Bakker, youngest of six.” He wipes a napkin across his lips. “You’re incredibly close to your uncle Jeff, who is your mother’s youngest brother and married to my boss, Robert Okai. You were born the fifteenth of April,” he says, “which is also Tax Day in the States.”

“Extra credit,” I say, and return his high five. “You are Calvin Aedan McLoughlin, born in Galway, Ireland—which is very interesting since according to most Americans, the only city in Ireland is Dublin—and are the oldest of four. Your mother is Marina, and she is a homemaker. Your father, Patrick, is in medical equipment manufacturing.”

He grins, impressed. “Your favorite food is Greek.”

I’m charmed he remembered this—especially considering I think I mumbled it as I was shoveling spanakopita in my face one evening. “Your favorite is . . . sushi?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I hate sushi.”

“Okay,” I admit, “that was a guess. Chinese?”

“My favorite cuisine is German food.”

I guffaw. “German isn’t really a cuisine, is it?”

He crosses his eyes at me. “Let’s pull up from the weeds, Mrs. McLoughlin.”

“Mr. Bakker, you’ve played guitar since you were four.” I chomp on a fry. “We met on a train—but this was six months ago, remember, not five weeks—and you asked me to dinner.”

Calvin puts his feet up on the coffee table. “That first date was at Mercato, and we went home and had sex.”

I choke on a bite of burger. “We did?”‘

Calvin leans over, kissing my cheek. “Don’t you remember? We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

“Oh, completely,” I say, laughing so awkwardly the sound of it actually makes me want to punch myself in the mouth. “Okay, yeah, I mean of course we’ve had a lot of sex. Like, newlywed and so, so into sex . . . of course.”

There’s a beat of dead silence as Calvin tries to figure out what the hell is happening, and I can’t help him because I have no idea what my mouth is doing, either. My brain has clearly checked out.

“Right,” he says slowly. “A lot of sex.” His grin starts tiny and turns into a beacon of amusement. “Should I tell him you like it a little dirty?”

I swallow a bite of fry before I’ve even chewed it; my eyes water instantly. “What?”

“I mean, you do, don’t you?” He licks his lips and stares at mine. “Certainly seemed that way.”

I don’t even know what’s happening. I wipe my mouth, like there might be a line of drool there.

“I like seeing you speechless.”

“I am . . . yes. Out of words.”

His smile straightens and he licks his lips again, leaning forward a little.

With a jerk, I cough, and resolutely ball my burger wrapper up. “Moving on! You are now a part of the orchestra for It Possessed Him,” I say, “but formerly you were a freelance performer and played in various bands, including a cover band called Loose Springsteen—”

“Please don’t tell them that. I don’t want that a matter of government record.”

I giggle. “And you apparently like to walk around the apartment mostly naked.”

He looks slyly at me. “You keep the heat up pretty high.”

I am no match for his verbal flirting. “Is it too warm in here?”

Calvin shrugs, and his greenish eyes are lit with tiny stars. “You’re pretty red.”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“By being half-naked?”

“By bringing up the sex we had.”

“The sex we didn’t have,” he corrects, becoming more amused by the minute. “That first date was pretend sex. Last night was real sex, without satisfaction for either of us. I’m wondering whether that has us both a little jittery. Maybe you’ll find something to help you in the couch.”

For a second, maybe more, I’m starting to think he’s flirting. I’m starting to think that he’s suggesting we go have some more real sex before we have to leave for work. He’s certainly dialed up the charm this afternoon.

But as he holds on to the smile, it becomes a little forced and his eyes flicker away, to the clock, down to his phone. And that is not a smile I’ve seen on his face before. Or have I?

The bubble pops.

Calvin is good at this. It took him no time at all to say yes to my proposal. The kiss on the wedding day made my knees weak, but he’s never tried to kiss me again. Well, not including last night’s booze-induced mauling. But he’s really good at the emotions, the intuition of feeling—it’s part of what makes him such a good musician.

And I’m . . . not. I’ve never been a game player.

Our interview is Monday, and we need to crush it. There’s a kernel inside me, holding steadfast, that knows he’s playing a game, trying to get me to loosen up enough to be convincing. Yes, he’s charming, and yes, of course, he’s gorgeous. But he wants this job and this life more than anything. I think back to his words the other day. “The entire time I’ve been here, I’ve wanted this—exactly this . . . After I graduated, I thought something like this would come . . . I wanted this show so much I just stayed.”

This is what is most important to him.

And that’s when it hits me.

If playing me and flirting with me—and even sleeping with me—will get him that life, I don’t doubt for one second that he would do it.